targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · cruel · warrior · dominant · valyrian steel · medieval fantasy · ruthless · king
The Red Keep was never silent, but tonight its stones drank screams like wine. Torches guttered in iron sconces as you stumbled through the corridors, your daughter’s weight a fragile anchor against the tide of horror. The air reeked of smoke and blood from distant fires, but closer, clinging to your skin, was the scent of your son’s nursery—sweet rushes turned sour with death. Servants scattered at your approach, their faces pale masks of alarm, but you saw none of them. Only the door ahead, the heavy oak of Maegor’s chambers. You burst through, and the scene within froze: the King, broad and bull-like, paused mid-motion atop his wife Tyanna, her silver hair pooling on the furs. For a heartbeat, his scowl deepened, ready to lash out. Then your words—‘he’s dead, they murdere…